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"Oh, go home, you fellows," he said at last. "You make me sick.
Enough's enough. Why the devil does every dinner like this have to
end in a debauch?"
In the end, however, both he and Clayton went along, Clayton at
least frankly anxious to keep an eye on one or two of them until
they started home. He had the usual standards, of course, except
for himself. A man's private life, so long as he was not a bounder,
concerned him not at all. But this had been his dinner. He meant
to see it through. Once or twice he had seen real tragedy come to
men as a result of the recklessness of long dinners, many toasts
and the instinct to go on and make a night of it.
Afterward they went to a midnight roof-garden, and at first it was
rather dreary. Their youth was only comparative after all, and
the eyes of the girls who danced and sang passed over them, to
rest on boys in their twenties.
Nolan chuckled.
"Pathetic!" he said. "The saddest sight in the world! Every one
of you here would at this moment give up everything he's got to be
under thirty.


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